


Falling from Heaven

by howdoesonewritethings



Category: Phandom/The Fantastic Foursome (YouTube RPF)
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe, Depression, Drugs, M/M, Phan - Freeform, Self Harm, Substance Abuse, Trigger Warnings, i wrote this a while ago and found it on my computer, its actually really sad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-12
Updated: 2017-04-12
Packaged: 2018-10-18 03:27:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,804
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10608333
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/howdoesonewritethings/pseuds/howdoesonewritethings
Summary: Trigger Warning. AU. Dan grows up with his childhood shattering around him, like shards of glass which cut into his skin. He is alone, and hurting, unable to fulfil his childhood dreams of flight. But maybe all he needs is another person to help him.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this a few months ago, and found it on my computer. Make sure to check the tags for trigger warnings it's quite sad I think.

People always used to tell me stories. Stories about happiness, and laughter, and faraway kingdoms of magic and light. Because that's what happens as a child. You're young, and swept into magical walks of hope, and dreams, of anything you want. And I loved them, believed in them with my whole being. Magic was my world. Because that's what happens as a child.

People lie to you, over and over again. And you believe them. Every. Single. Time.

The main source of these stories was usually my grandma. She had such an imagination, a different view of the world to many around her. I honestly think she trusted in the possibility of love and magic and happily ever afters. I used to sit on her lap by the fire,on the squishy blue armchair, and she would tell me wonderful stories of flying with dragons, of angels and fairies and soulmates. 

Once, I remember I asked her a question. "Gramdmama," I said "Will I fly like the fairies, and find true love like the princesses?" And I asked her with hope shining in my eyes, the sparkle every child is born with, and slowly loses over time. She simply hugged me tighter, and whispered a "yes" into my ear. And I smiled, and believed her wholeheartedly. Because that's what happens as a child. 

~oOo~

And so, at the age of five, on my first day of primary school, I was equipped with my knowledge of all magical creatures and people, like dragons and unicorns, the tooth fairy and Santa, ready to impress all of my new peers. I vividly remember my feet hovering on tiptoes, the way I always was, inside my black trainers, a bright smile already plastered on my face.

It was story time, and the teacher wanted us to tell our own stories to the class, things we knew and stories from our own lives. The girl next to me told a story about the stars in the sky smiling down, and the galaxy, and one boy told a story about a rocket, and the first boy on the moon. Then it was my turn. I launched into one of my favourite stories, involving the tooth fairy and a funny accident with a dragon, an old one my grandmama told me, years ago. The class giggled, then the teacher called for silence. She, very innocently, asked then, if anybody had any true stories to tell. I protested that my story was true, and the boy next to me laughed, calling me stupid for thinking the tooth fairy could overpower a dragon. I got angry then.

I didn't hit him. I promise. I really, really didn't. I only called him the dumbest of all idiots, and that he didn't know anything, and he hit me. He tackled me to the ground, and I tried to push him off, but was heavier than me. But I didn't hit him. Ever. 

The journey home was in silence, my dad refusing to listen to why I'd gotten into a fight with another boy over something as silly as dragons and tooth fairies. When we arrived home, he returned to his desk, and his usual adult life. He didn't want my explanations, he said. He was done with silly stories, he said.

~oOo~

When I was 7, I woke up to a rustling one night, and turned to see my dad clutching a coin in his hand. I frowned, innocently asking what he was doing, the "adorable" lisp my voice hadn't lost snagging on my tooth. 

Every parent should know how it works. The child should be allowed to retain their innocence and delusions of happiness and magic until a certain age, and to enjoy the freedom of childhood, before you are thrust into the horrifying truth and monotony of the adult world.

7 is not that age.

"I'm putting the money under your pillow sweetheart." He replied casually, as if this was normal, something to expect and know, as if slowly starting to ruin a child's wildest fantasies was nothing to him. "But... But that's the tooth-fairies job!" I replied in shock, tired and confused as to why my dad would ever do that. And he simply responded "Of course not sweetheart, the tooth fairy doesn't exist."

And my reality began to fracture right then and there.

~oOo~

When I was 8, I stumbled downstairs in the night, trying to catch Santa, as every child does at least once. I wanted to meet the magical man who delivered presents to millions of people around the world, making so many children happy and giving hope to everyone. I wanted to meet this symbol of hope and joy. But instead, my father was snoozing on the couch, a half eaten biscuit in his hand, and an empty glass of milk beside him. I let out a sob, and fled upstairs.

A further fracture in my hopes and dreams.

~oOo~

But, on my first day in secondary school, I was still clutching onto aspersions of hope and magic. I refused to let anyone convince me that magic was not real, something most children of my age at that point had let go of. Most people at this point were beginning to accept that the real world is not magical and happy. It is harsh, monotonous, unforgiving and unfulfilling. But I was there, refusing to let go. I refused to forget a single one of the stories, or even to consider for a second that I might be wrong.

We were in a lesson, which one in particular I don't remember... They all blur together now. They asked us what we wanted to do with our lives. I remember with clarity, in clear and precise detail, what happened.

The responses ranged, depending on the child.  
"I want to be an astronaut!"  
"I want to be a fireman!"  
"I wanna be a teacher."  
"I wanna be a doctor!"

And then there was me. Grinning proudly at myself I announced:

"I wanna be able to fly!"

Every single head in the class turned to me on confusion and disbelief, unsure what I was talking about.

"Do you mean you want to be a pilot, or flight assistant on an aeroplane?" Asked my teacher gently. Stubbornly, with all the determination my sweet 11 year old self could muster, I shook my head. My teacher looked at me, with confusion matching the rest of the class.

"I want to grow wings and fly!" I told everyone. The class started changing as people thought about my statement. Snickers spread nastily through the room, as people pointed and whispered. 

"It's impossible to fly you stupid freak." One girl spat. I shook my head, refusing to believe her. "You really think things like fairies exist? You're such an idiot." She taunted. My poor teacher didn't even have a chance to raise her voice.

But I DIDN'T HIT HER. I promise. I only said "Well, I'd rather be an idiot than anything like you!" And she hit me. But I NEVER HIT HER. I never hurt anyone. Ever.

And this time, my reality started to crack.

It was another awkward car journey home. My dad was once again scowling in he sat on the front seat, knuckles white as he gripped the steering wheel. I opened my mouth to say something, to vouch for what I'd done, but I couldn't bring myself to say anything. It wasn't as if I hurt her. Was it so awful of me to have run away from her, that she tripped over my leg after she pushed me to the ground. I'd had to sit in the isolation room for half an hour before dad picked me up, and he wasn't happy at all.

~oOo~

When I was 13, my grandmother died. I think that this was the first time I started to grow up, as tiny chips of the fantasy facade I always hid myself behind started to fall away. I remember standing in black, while it rained, as an old man droned about her "fantastic imagination" and how she was "someone to be remembered for her fantasy stories" and "great heart". 

I was blinking through tears, as I experienced death and loss for the first time in memory. I don't remember my mother, so she doesn't count. I was trying so hard to accept that my grandmother, my source of hope and happiness and joy, was truly gone. And all they could talk about was how good she was at making things up. 

But it was true! It had to be! Everything she told me, everything she wanted the to believe in had to be true. I couldn't give up hope that one day, I would fly, and I would achieve true love. But, as another tear rolled down my face, I ran.

I tore off down a path, that I knew led through a forest, but would eventually lead me home. I ran, leaving behind memories of my grandmother, laughing and joking and weaving fantastical stories with her words. I left behind sorrow and pain and loss, and I was just running. I imagined my feet leaving the ground. This is what flying would feel like, I'm sure.

~oOo~

When I was 14, I got my first crush. At first, it didn't matter to me that it was a boy. That he was the same gender as me. I was still hiding under my delusions. Aft my grandma had died, I had always vowed to never forget her stories and her wishes, her praises and her visions of love. And so, like her, I believed that love could be anything. I thought that gender wouldn't be an object, that it was the same as anybody else having a crush.

But I was wrong.

After a few weeks, I plucked up the courage to ask him out. I approached him when he was by his locker. He was taller than me, and I thought he was absolutely gorgeous. He had sandy hair, and blue eyes flecked with varying shades of greens. He had a way of half smiling that I found adorable. And he was the best runner in school.

I opened my mouth, and out flowed the words, unstoppable and uncontrollable. "Hiiwaswonderingofyouwantedtogoonadate?" I asked. He stared at me blankly, not having caught what I said, but one of his friends did. Smirking, the friend whispered what I'd said.

And my crush, the guy I was obsessed with, started laughing. "You think I'm a fucking fag mate? What an idiot." The whole group was laughing at me, laughing at the possibility a relationship with someone the same gender of him would be OK. Laughing at the possibility he could ever date a freak like me. 

My reality was still cracking, shattering in places, slowly falling to pieces around me.

And by the next day, the entire school knew.

I'm not going to detail everything that happened. It wasn't pretty, and it wasn't nice. Pretty much everything I was had been ripped away from me, and thrown on the floor to be trampled by others. I was nothing to them, a figure to throw their disgust at the world at. They didn't think of me as a person, saying it was because I didn't think of myself as one either. Until then, I had always refused to believe I could be anything less than special, refused to believe I couldn't have my own special destiny, where I could fly, fall in love, and have a happily ever after. And these people were refusing to believe it. 

And I started to believe them.

~oOo~

My life never went according to plan. Everything I wanted, hoped for, dreamed about, fell apart at my feel because I refused to let go. Magic and hope had been apart of who I was for the longest time, and I couldn't deal with the loss of it. And my life started to whizz by, a hell hole of insults and pain.

Age 15. A 10 day suspension for 'fighting' a guy who called me a faggot and attacked me.

Age 16. Excluded from school for locking myself in a classroom and refusing to come out until I had managed to destroy every object in the room.

Age 17. A fantastic total of 2 passed GSCE's. 

And there I was, age 18, having just been excluded from the only college I had managed to get into with 2 GSCEs an exclusion and 6 suspensions under my belt. Dad was driving me home mouth set, and I knew this time would be different.

"Daniel, I can't do this any more. I'm a single parent, trying to look after my disgrace of a son, who's been kicked out of multiple schools, failed most of his exams, and to top it all off is a FUCKING FAG WITH NO GRIP ON REALITY. I can't look after this mess you are now. Once we are home, you are going to pack your things. You are going to use the money your grandmother left you 5 years ago, buy an apartment and sort your fucking life out, because I've decided you're not my problem any more."

I left that night.

And the final piece of hope, the fantasy wall I had had for so long, exploded into a million pieces.

~oOo~

A few months later, I woke up from yet another night at the bar with ink on my back. I had don't stupid things before, but hadn't gone this far. I had been drunk, but I remembered enough of what I had done. I didn't mind it too much, it symbolised my lost faith in the world and in humanity. I stood up and turned to the mirror, stretching my back to see it.

On my back was a beautifully tattooed pair of wings. They covered my entire back and curled round to my sides, inky black feathers encompassing my flesh. I let out a shaky breath and collapsed into my bed, wondering what I should buy at the bar that night.

~oOo~

And thus, my life continued. I drowned myself in alcohol every night for months, trying to forget what a waste of space I was. The was no point in me. But it got to the point when even that wasn't enough. Alcohol wasn't enough for me, I needed more, something to properly get rid of the all encompassing pain I felt, and the pointlessness, at the hell, at the utter heartbreak my life had turned out to be. 

Because in all actuality, what was I? I was worth nothing. I didn't help anything, and I didn't affect the world in any way. I had no contact with my father, no friends and no job. I never did anything except lie on my bed in the day and drink myself away at night. I was nothing, and I never would be. 

Pointless.

~oOo~

A little while later, someone at the bar offered me something stronger than alcohol, the substance I had been craving. At first I felt ill, but it also made me feel like I was flying, what I had always dreamed. And so I continued taking it. I had no reason to stop. Nobody to stop me. 

And I flew, just like I'd always wanted.

~oOo~

And then, I started cutting. I remember the first time, when I was somehow sober, my mind not clouded by the usual haze of alcohol and drugs. And I wanted to give myself a mark, something to show myself what little I was worth. So I found a razor. I but my lip hard enough to draw blood from there as well, before pulling it slowly across my skin. A trickle of blood flowed out, and in some ways it satisfied me, knowing I deserved this. It was a feeling for once, a sharp feeling of pain not numbed by alcohol.

But in other ways it wasn't enough.

And so I continued. My routine was simple. Sleep for most of the day. Wake up. Dress. Cut. Clean up the blood. Go out. Drink. Find My Dealer. Replenish My Stash. Go Home.

And that was it. My entire life. Hurt and pain and betrayal, the opposites of everything else I wanted to accomplish. The only magic my life contained came from substances I somehow knew I should never have taken. Some people think they understood me, nodding sympathetically at the bar or trying to talk to me lay on. But nobody can ever understand my helplessness, and my need to abuse myself like this. It's because it's all I'm good for.

~oOo~

Until one day, everything started to change.

~oOo~

It was at the bar. I was drinking, and was already gone, but hadn't started on my drug supply yet. I knew that soon, I would run out of money. I didn't have a job, and owning an apartment on my own for so long already is a feat. I would have to find someone to live with, or become homeless. And for me, the latter option seemed more appropriate.

I was in my usual chair, when some men, around my age, came in, talking laughing. Something I denied myself a long time ago. They sat nearby and ordered some drinks, talking about lighthearted matters. A while later they were still there, slowly getting more and more drunk. They started to play a drinking game, and one called out to me, asking if I wanted to join in. Which I did. 

They were attractive, particularly one of them, but I tried not to notice that, but of course I did. I'm human, corrupt and full of lust and sin, something I denied for too long.

We talked. I never laughed, because laughing was so alien to me, so strange and unnatural now. We went out, them still laughing. We went to a park, and two of us were perched precariously on the edge of a bridge. I even kissed the attractive guy, a sloppy kiss full of halfhearted passion that can only be experienced when drunk. And eventually, I went home with him.

And we fucked.

Not that this was foreign to me. I had been raped before, and taken advantage of, as I was always too out of it to protect myself, and I had had one night stands of my own choice. Never a proper relationship, but sex was definitely not alien to me.

~oOo~

I remember waking up in a room with too much colour and light. My head was pounding, but that was no different to anything I would normally experience. And there was a strange man in a nearby room whistling far too happily. It was an irritating sound, yet fittingly accurate of everything I was not.

I put on my clothes from where they were piled at the side of the room, tigging my long sleeves down to my wrists, and made my way into the room as the other man, hoping to excuse myself quickly and leave. 

A man only slightly shorter than my 6'3" smiled at me. "Hey, if you don't remember, I'm Phil. I'm just making some special tea my mum used to make me, it's great for hangovers. Want some?" 

I shook my head, but stopped when I noticed the man had already started pouring me a mug. Well now I had obligations to stay and drink it. I always hated small talk, it was just another embodiment of people expressing how great life was for them. And plus, people never asked you questions because they cared about your response, only because they wanted to give their answer or opinion. 

'Phil' grabbed the mugs and carried them into a lounge area, where he set them down on a coffee table. Phil took a sip and grinned. 'Try some! Seriously, it's like magic! He enthused.

The words made my stomach jolt and my breath hitch in my mouth. Magic is taboo for me, the thing I lost hope in last, the thing that started the shithole my life was. The first and last thing. Poetic really. 

I reached out and took a sip of the tea. It didn't taste the best, but actually did erase some of the fogginess from my head. I frowned. That wasn't what I wanted at all, but now I felt morally obligated to this man, to finish his tea. I took another sip sighing slightly as my thoughts became sharper, bringing a new edge of pain and hurt to my mind.

"So are you a local, Dan?" Asked Phil casually. I nodded, halfway through a mouthful of the tea. "Yeah, that was the closest bar to my house so yeah." Phil nodded thoughtfully. "Maybe I'll see you again then. Hopefully." The simple statement made me almost choke on the tea, as I looked directly into his eyes for the first time.

They were beautiful eyes, blue, but also somehow not, green and yellow. They were almost mesmerising. But the thing that shocked me the most was the childlike spark in his eyes.

Nobody ever wanted to see me again. Ever. And why would they? I couldn't see this man again, because I could never make myself ruin that spark in his eyes, tear it to pieces and rip it to shreds like the horrible person I knew myself to be.

I nodded briefly. "Maybe. But I should really go now. I have places to be and people to see excetera. Bye!" With that I practically ran in the direction I remembered the door to be and left the house feeling for my phone in my pocket. It was there. Good.

I headed home. I would never see the hopeful, kind of amazing Phil again, and it was for the best. I just needed to get back into my routine again and I would forget it just like anything else in my life.

Half an hour later I was back in my bathroom, my red blood spelling out onto the floor.

~oOo~

A few daze later I awoke with another hangover, my words slurred with the haze of drugs, to a phone call. I frowned. Nobody would call me, unless it was just a spam call. I sighed and picked it up anyway. It wasn't exactly going to ruin my life more.

"Umm... Hey, this is Phil, that guy from the other day. I was scrolling through my contacts and you must have given me your number at some point because it's saved onto my phone. But, umm, I was wondering if you wanted to go for coffee or something sometime? Like... today maybe?"

Dan stopped breathing for a second. Coffee? As in... A date? "M'sorry. Can't. I was out last night, and I have a hangover. M'not in any state to go out."  
"You went out again? But you were only up there the other night! Umm, OK. Well maybe on Tuesday then?" I screwed up my face in concentration, and checked the day on my phone. It was Saturday. But it wasn't fair to Phil to make him date a person like me. " I don't think I can." I replied.  
"Oh." Phil on the other end sounded crushed. I felt terrible, and it was no more than I deserved, leading him on like that the other day. I was such trash, and it hurt knowing I'd hurt someone else by not doing something. So, I decided to do something I hadn't considered before.  
"I'm free Monday though...?" I said questioningly, already doubting my probably stupid decision. But I heard a slight gasp on the other end. "Yeah, me too, that's fantastic! Umm, is 11 o'clock at the Starbucks on the high street OK for you?" Phil asked. I nodded briefly, but then remembered that he couldn't see my bobbing head. "Yeah. See you then." I told him before hanging up.

I got up and looked into my mirror. What was I doing? I was too much of a mess, a waste of fucking space to ever date someone as pure and sweet as Phil appeared to be. I couldn't support myself, or get GSCEs or even stay out of fights, or do anything, and here I was, about to bring someone else down with my emotional baggage... More like emotional hangman's noose. 

But what is he turned out to be like the others? Horrible and cruel, adult and horrifyingly, terrifyingly evil. I wouldn't be able to deal with that pain on top of what I already had.

So instead of thinking about it, I decided to pull out my razor, deciding where to cut in an arm already littered with scars.

~oOo~

When Monday dawned, I felt terrible. I had made a huge effort to try not to drink last night, but then it hit me what a shitty person I am and I gave in as I always did. 

It was early, and I probably had time to freshen up before it was time. I considered bailing, but that wouldn't help. I had to find a way to let Phil down without letting him discover what kind of person I was, without letting anyone discover that. It was my secret, most of the time.

I arrived at Starbucks a couple of minutes late, and spotted Phil already sitting down with a drink. I ordered what used to be my usual, when I still regularly bothered to go outside in the day, and sat opposite him. We started talking again, about little things, and I got the impression he actually listened to my answers and cared about my feelings, something I didn't really get from most people. It was refreshing, and I liked listening to Phil talk and I gave suitable answers, staying off the topic of drinking, and trying to seem as if I didn't have a hangover.

Phil seemed to notice I didn't smile properly, and tried his hardest. I enjoyed the short time we had, something I realised abruptly that I hadn't felt in ages. When Phil left for his shift at work, I smiled briefly, before heading home. We had plans to meet up again against my better judgement.

~oOo~

That night, though, with my thoughts crowded with alcohol and the strongest drugs I could find, I still couldn't think happily of myself. Actually, I hated myself with a passion even more than I usually did. It was one thing to be a waste of space, a mess, a problem to myself, but it was completely different to let those affect Phil. He was so innocent and delicate, I would destroy him by accident. I would choke all hope from that fucking sparkle in his eyes until he was just as empty as I was. And it would be a complete accident. 

~oOo~

I continued to see Phil, and to punish myself for it as well. I spent at least a third of my time with him, and tried to keep my life out of the picture. I was about 21 now, but Phil was 25. He had graduated from university with a degree in English Literature. He worked at a nearby bookstore and was close to his family and friends.

But I slowly began to learn the littler things. Like his fear of thunderstorms, and his worries that his aunt would never accept his sexuality. Things like the way his tongue stuck out when he laughed, and how innocent he was.

And I was a mess, drinking and doing drugs, on the last year of my rent probably, a waste of space with no family, friends or connections at all. 

And yet, for some reason I couldn't bring myself to stop seeing him.

~oOo~

I had been seeing Phil for about 5 months now when it happened. We were in his apartment, watching a movie. He reached over to kiss me, and pushed up my sleeve by mistake. My eyes widened as I hastily tugged it down. Noticing the movement of my hand, he looked at the sliver of skin. He slowly pushed my sleeve back up, and his mouth opened in a tiny 'O' as he took in my layers of scars, some freshly opened.

He pulled back. "You cut?" He whispered. I looked down, biting my lip. He looked at me in shock, the pieces fitting together. "But that's not all you do is it, Dan? The taste of alcohol on your breath, the packet of "sugar" i found stashed in your apartment... Dan why didn't you tell me?" I stood up, stepping backwards.

"Because I don't want you to know how much of a mess I am!" I shouted. I never shouted at Phil, he was my sun, and I never shouted at him. Ever. Until now... Phil seemed lost for words. "I'm a waste of space ok? I will ruin your life and I knew this was a bad idea and..." Phil looked up and his mesmerising eyes locked with my brown ones.  
"But... Why don't you just... Stop?" He asked confused. 

I remember grinding my teeth together and shouting that it wasn't that easy. I remember him asking me why. I remember smashing his photograph, and him telling me he couldn't be with someone like this.

I remember leaving and slamming the front door behind me.

~oOo~

It got worse after that. Everything did. The drinking, the drugs, the cutting. I didn't stop, not allowing anything except pain to penetrate my hazy, pointless existence, because anything else made the pain completely unbearable. I tried that with him.

I was a shithole of despair, and even though I knew leaving Phil must have been for the better, for him, my entire life was all falling apart, in ways I hadn't even known were possible before, bug I was so glad sweet, innocent, amazing Phil wasn't suffering for it like I was.

~oOo~

Then one day, I cut too far, too deep. I was lying on my bathroom floor, blood pooling around me, too much blood, as my consciousness slipped out of my grasp. I thought it was the end. That it deserved to be my end. It seemed fitting, the end of a waste of a space, covered in his own blood and despairing of his lost love. But then, I heard a familiar voice at my door, in what sounded like tears.

"Dan, I'm sorry, please let me..."

My door creaked open, and footsteps ran towards me. The bathroom door swung open, and a blurry figure stood above me looking down.

"Nonono Dan? Dan!" 

Phils words drifted away as I floated into oblivion.

~oOo~

I regained consciousness a while later, in an unfamiliar bed, with voices talking in hushed voices nearby. I opened my eyes, to be met with the sterile while ceiling of a hospital. I slowly pushed myself up to a sitting position. The voices broke off as Phil rushed to my bed.

"Dan! Thank God you're ok, I was so worried when I came in and saw you like that! I'm so sorry for what I said before... And Dan... I want to help you. I was talking to one of the nurses and they have a really nice place to send you to, where they can deal with your depression and addictions, and..."

Phils voice turned into meaningless background noise as I processed what he was saying. They were sending me to rehab? For... Addiction? And depression? But I didn't have those things, it wasn't my fault if I was a mess and a waste of space, but that's just who I was, it's just human nature to be like that. 

"Dan? Are you listening?"  
"Mr Howell, this is a specialised medical unit for treating cases like yours. It shouldn't take you more than a year and we will get you there tomorrow, with an escort. It's the best way for you to heal."

I wanted to protest, but a small part of me wouldn't let me. Maybe, there was a part of me that wanted to fix my wall, to fix my reality, to fix me. And so I nodded.

~oOo~

I was 23 years old, and had been clean for almost a year. I had been out of rehab for 9 months. I had a stable job at the library, and shared an apartment. I felt almost fixed. But there were still things missing, small parts of me that needed to be slotted in to the gaps in the wall I had finally rebuilt. 

I turned to my boyfriend Phil, and nudged him awake.  
"Whassamatter Dan?" He asked groggily from his side of the bed. I took a deep breath. "Phil... I wanted to talk to you. About me. I wanted to tell you... Everything,"

And so, after Phil made us some more magic tea, I told him... everything. About the stories and the wish to fly, the teasing, my grandmothers death, the bullies and the suspensions, the expulsions, the failed GSCEs, being kicked out by my dad. I showed him the tattoo, and about my drinking, and the drugs and the cutting and meeting him and the argument, and rehab, and everything in between. I talked until I was a exhausted, and Phil listened.

"Well, we can fix what's not already perfect. Give me your phone." Phil said, and I handed it over, unlocking it. Phil typed out a text, and I read the screen.

TO:  
Dad

Hey, Dad? I wanted to see you. I miss you.

And so, I suppose I'll never be able to fly. Because, truthfully, I am human. I am just another tiny insignificant human in an ocean of others exactly the same as me. I'm the same, nothing particularly magical, or special, or different. So, I will never fly. But when I'm with Phil ... It sure as hell feels like I can.

~oOo~

EPILOGUE:

I am now 93 years old, holding my husbands fingers in a white, clean, sterile hotel room. Phil is 97 and is slowly slipping away now. I bend down and give him a soft peck on the cheek.  
"I love you Phil."  
"I love you more Dan." He whispers with a smile.  
Then he is gone.

I then leave, unable to face the now lifeless body of my love, my saviour. I head to our apartment, and grab an empty book. I start to write.

"People always used to tell me stories..."

Once I have finished, I place down my pen. I stand, and head to the park where I first kiss Phil, and stand on the bridge where it happened. I step up, and take a deep breath. Then, it only takes one step forwards.

And I really am flying.

**Author's Note:**

> Ok, well you just read a thing. Umm, sorry there isn't loads of actual Phan, it's mostly just Dan falling apart, but I hope you enjoyed it, let me know.
> 
> I also wanted to say that I'm working on the next chapter for my other fic, so hopefully that will be out soon as well.


End file.
